


Actual Sweeping Involved

by Fenrevas



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Fake Sparring, Fluff and Humor, Short
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:09:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29840637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenrevas/pseuds/Fenrevas
Summary: Chapter 1: What if Fenris practices a fighting style like Wing Chun and Hawke is a street boxer? One shot inspired by a discussion about fighting styles.'Hawke watches as Fenris fights alone and unarmed in the centre of the square. His movements are a graceful choreography of blocks and feints that would look more at home in dance than in battle.'A collection of short one shots and drabbles relating to Ash Hawke. Some entries are Hawke and some are Hawke/Fenris.
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke, Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 2





	1. Actual Sweeping Involved

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by this DA2 dialogue.  
> Varric: 'I want to make sure I get all the details right when I tell this story. Did you sweep her off her feet or was it the other way around?'  
> Fenris: 'I'm not telling you anything but this: There was no actual sweeping involved.'  
> Varric: 'Every little bit helps, elf.'

The high walls of the fortress rise to meet hazy pink sky, blocking out the sun and throwing the training yard into shadow. Hawke shivers, as a whip of cold wind catches red dust in spirals that look like blood spatter. 

Hawke watches as Fenris fights alone and unarmed in the centre of the square. His movements are a graceful choreography of blocks and feints that would look more at home in dance than in battle. He moves with fluid strength, like calm water. 

Fenris strikes out viper-quick at his imaginary foe and Hawke startles. As the training block vibrates from the contact, she covers her mouth to stifle a laugh. Someone has painted a face on the target, crude lines of black ink, complete with a curled moustache. 

Shaking off her laughter, Hawke watches Wardens gather and collect training swords from the weapons stand. 

She stays to the darkest shadows as she moves around the square. The clatter of swords reverberate, a sharp symphony. The sound is painful, but she is glad; it will provide cover she needs. 

She reaches her mark, a Warden’s training sword. It is a dull, blunted blade. Longer than the daggers she is used to, but not by much. 

Crouching low, Hawke stalks forward in careful, creeping movements. She holds the sword against her hip, blade pointed to the dust. Fenris strikes the training block now, over and over, a metronome pulse of glancing blows.

Taking a deep breath, Hawke turns her body, ready to strike as she comes up behind him. This close to his back she hears the rhythmic beat over the racket of the Wardens’ drills. 

Hawke leans her weight back, then throws her body forwards aiming the pommel strike just shy of his shoulder. As her momentum carries her, Fenris turns. A smooth side-step and twist of his wrist disarms her easily, and the training sword skids across the stone floor.

Hawke is thrown off balance, steadies herself. She brings up a guard with her fists, bends her knees. A defensive stance. 

“Just go with it, I need to tell you something. And they are watching. Make it convincing…alright?” She bounces on her toes; drops her guard for a moment to shake out the hand Fenris caught with his block. The sharp pain in her wrist dulls. 

Fenris takes her lead, bends his knees, and raises his hands. His palms are open where hers are squeezed tight. Bare toes bend and flex, find purchase on the stone, press into red dust. He raises his eyebrow and nods. “Continue.”

Hawke lunges forwards, a quick jab with her left. She intends to make contact and catches Fenris below his collar bone. She follows with a right hook. Blocked by the knife edge of his palm against her forearm. He shakes his head and lowers his stance. 

Hawke grins, partly for show, and partly because she cannot help herself. When she strikes next, Fenris blocks her but does not let go. He grips her forearm and twists until she is turned away from him. He huffs a laugh and holds her there. 

The Wardens do not appear to be watching them, but Hawke has to be certain, and the dark windows lining the training yard could contain unseen eyes. 

“We have to leave here tonight. I overheard the Warden-Commander. They mean to…” Hawke quietens as the clattering of swords stops abruptly, and a sudden silence descends. 

“Quick, pretend I said a witty taunt or something.”

She feels Fenris nod, a breath against her ear “As you wish.”

The stroke of his thumb against her wrist gives warning before he grips tighter. Pulls, then pushes. Hawke has a moment to steel herself and sucks in a breath before Fenris sweeps her feet from under her.

Hawke looks up from the floor, her chest is tight, but she landed well. She grins and begins to laugh. “You didn’t have to sweep me off my feet Fenris!”


	2. Reflections on a Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Ash Hawke is weighed down with guilt after Kirkwall. Perhaps she was only ever good at starting fires.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose the name Ash for my first DA2 playthrough, and the name stuck.  
> This started as a poem I wrote about Ash Hawke before I decided to write my fic 'From Ashes', and it ended up being an answer to 'what if Hawke writes angsty poetry?'

Hawke puts the tip of her quill pen to the parchment. For a moment she remembers the lewd pictures Isabela would draw in the margins of her old journal and laughs. The journal she left behind in Kirkwall. She hopes Aveline used it as fuel for the fire at the Amell estate.

Hawke smiles to herself, wondering if fuelling fires was all her words were ever good for. She shakes off the tight feeling in her throat and writes.

****************************************************

Ash, the dust after destruction settles.  
Grey dirt with amber embers.  
Amber eyes.

Ash, a bitter taste.  
An empty hearth, an empty home.  
Regret.

Ash, the crushed bones of enemies.  
A city in dust.  
Love left to decay and turn to rust.  
  
Ash is a memory that drifts away on the wind.  
And a nightmare that gets stuck in your throat.  
A choking, stifling, suffocating mud.

Ash, the dawn that comes after all has been lost.  
And the darkness before, the eye of the storm.  
A Phoenix that wakes and sings “hope”.

Ash, a warm heart that burns bright.  
Burns out.  
Ash cools to grey on the ground.

Ash, a healing touch.  
From cold death springs new life.  
Light and ash come together and bless the earth.  
Love and hope begin again.

****************************************************

Dropping the quill on the table, and without cleaning the dark samite-blue ink from her fingers, Hawke wipes away stray tears from her face. She stands, collects her daggers from the makeshift weapons stand, and throws the page to the fire before the ink has dried.


End file.
